Rogues Gallery (19 page)

Jerrod placed the sword on the table and was back to eating his pork and beans before the man hit the ground. Blood from the blade dripped down on the table. A stunned silence followed after the initial outburst.

Then a few of the dozen or so of the patrons shouted at him, raising their fists. The fat man’s friends came forward but not too close.

“What have you done?”

“Hey now!”

“What’s this?”

“Call the constables! This man’s a murderer!”

Several of the others echoed the sentiment while Jerrod ate, smirking. They called him murderer. They had no idea. They were stunned but full of bluster, a dangerous combination in a crowd but necessary. It would be a good measure of his current abilities and proved what he believed about people.

They shouted and shook their fists, but none came forward to accost him, and so far no one had gone to raise the alarm for the police. They were near the southern docks; there should’ve been plenty of guild security around. It might’ve been fun to kill a few of those.

One of the patrons got brave and made a move towards the door. He looked around at everyone with disdain in his eyes. “This isn’t right. I’m going to the police. This man is a killer.”

Jerrod laughed. “You got that part right, pal. Go ahead and get them police people here. See, I know all your faces.” He looked around at them, each one, staring in their eyes. “I’m good at remembering things like that.”

A few of them muttered while Mister Hero stopped and glanced back at Jerrod. “What does that matter?”

Jerrod finished his meal with a burp and sat back, patting his belly. It felt good to have it full.

“Good stuff, that,” he said. “See, I don’t much like them law men much. Seems to me they’re kinda pushy, and pushy people make me angry. They also get up in people’s business too much for my liking, always asking questions.” He shook his head. “Don’t like that much either.”

The man at the door frowned. “So? You killed a man, right in front of all us. You must pay for your crime, friend.”

Jerrod laughed a loud, long chortle that startled people closest to him. He almost choked on his water as he tried to drink it down and settle his stomach.

“You ain’t lived here long, have ya? No, see, this man here cooling and shitting himself on the floor challenged me, woulda killed me if he had the chance. The way I see it, I was only defending myself. So go ahead and get them police boys in here, and we’ll sort this thing out.”

The man hesitated at the doorway, looking around at the others, hoping for some support. He got none.

“’Course,” Jerrod said and sat forward, his eyes stern. “I’d be so inclined to remember the particular man who ratted me out, just in case the police do come and try to incarcerate me and all that.” He paused to eye each of them in turn. “It ain’t too big of a world I can’t find each and every person I want to.”

At that moment, another couple of people came into the room, a young man and woman. They entered and brushed by Mister Hero, talking to one another and didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. They glanced around a moment before sitting, noticing then how quiet the room was, but then they were too engrossed with their own conversation to stare long.

“I’m-I’m going,” said the hero at the door. He didn’t sound very convincing, but with another look around, he shot out the door.

Jerrod chuckled and gave the man credit for bravery. Stupid, but at least he had some amount of guts.

A few minutes passed, and the new couple spotted the corpse cooling on the floor in front of Jerrod’s table. Maybe they thought it was a drunken man sleeping off his drink at first, but the wide pool of blood around his form gave evidence that not all was right at this particular tavern.

They glanced at Jerrod and spoke to each other hushed, worried tones. The two of them were young and clean cut. Jerrod wondered what crazy notion brought them to this side of town. The southern docks were not a good place for visitors.

‘You came to the wrong place tonight, folks,’ he thought.

After another moment it appeared they would get up and leave because thus far no server had come to their table, and no one but them had said a word. But then another group of people entered, three men and a woman, laughing and talking.

One of the men, a well-to-do looking merchant, stopped about ten feet into the place and looked around. His eyes narrowed, and Jerrod smiled. The rest of the group kept walking towards the bar, oblivious. The merchant’s eyes scanned the room and rested on the body on the floor.

He and Jerrod made eye contact. The man swallowed, and Jerrod’s grin widened. His party called out to the man to join them, and he followed, still looking at Jerrod. His face darkened from concern to stark terror.

The atmosphere of the room shifted to a more normal tableau. Jerrod wasn’t surprised. These people understood this town. Still hungry, he flicked his hand at the serving girl who looked frightened. She glanced at the bartender with fear in her eyes. The thick-bellied man with a dirty apron motioned her to obey, and she rushed over to Jerrod’s table.

Time passed. No one that had witnessed the murder had dared to leave, and Jerrod felt more gratified that he could control a crowd of people with one simple act of violence. The hostages continued to be still for the most part, chatting with people only at their own table in hushed tones. Their gazes never strayed far from Jerrod’s table or the corpse on the floor.

There was a commotion outside and the stomping of what could only be police boots. His instinct sent a pulse to pick up his sword, but he ignored it. Now was the time to see how much weight his display still carried.

Four policemen came in and stopped just inside the swinging double doors. To their credit, they didn’t rush in but rather waited in order to assess the situation. Jerrod had always thought them well trained if a bit stolid.

“Officer Bigus,” Jerrod said when they came up to this table. It was obvious to even dimwitted cops where the trouble in the room was, considering a neglected body sprawled in front of him. It was already decomposing and stinking; but considering the slop they served at the tavern, Jerrod wasn’t sure anyone could have noticed the difference. “What seems to be the problem? Somethin’ I can help you with?”

Bigus eyed him for a moment then motioned to the corpse. A couple of them knelt down to examine the dead man while the fourth put his hands on his hips, close to his club. Clubs against Jerrod and his long sword. Pathetic. Bigus had a short sword, but the cops were never armed well.

The sergeant pointed to the corpse. “What happened to him?”

Jerrod shrugged. “Seems to me the guy can’t hold his shit when he drinks and went and had himself a little accident.”

“An accident is it?”

Bigus glanced at the kneeling men. They shook their heads and stood.

“Yeah, he tripped and fell on my sword,” Jerrod said, shaking his head. “Damn shame, too. I bet he was a helluva guy, an upstanding citizen and all that. Too bad.”

Bigus looked at his men, reassessing the situation. Jerrod knew he was no idiot, at least compared to most cops. They all knew what had happened. The question remained, what they would or could do about it.

Sergeant Bigus released a breath and looked around at the crowd. They were all silent and watching the table.

“Is it true what this man claims? Are there any witnesses?”

Jerrod chortled. “Sure there were! Every single one of these buggers here saw the whole thing transpire. They’ll tell you.” Jerrod’s smile was large as he scanned the crowd. Then his face darkened. “Go on. Tell ‘em.”

An awkward silence followed. Bigus looked around, expectant and then looked at his men, calculating their chances. Four against one seemed like good odds against most men. But Jerrod wasn’t most men, and Bigus knew it. His sword was still slick with blood, and the stain on the wooden table was dark like rust.

Bigus searched the crowd for anyone willing to speak and got blank looks. “Let’s interview these people.”

They proceeded to do so. Jerrod got more food and eyed each person in turn as they spoke with the police. They said little and shook their heads often. Their scant glances at Jerrod were furtive and frightened. After a few minutes, the police returned to his table.

“How’d it go, boys? Somethin’ else I might help you with?”

Bigus eyed him for a moment, then rubbed his substantial mustache and sighed. He pointed at the corpse. “Let’s get this mess cleaned up and contact the coroner’s office.”

With not another look at Jerrod, they dragged the poor sod out of the tavern. Everyone that had seen him murder the man watched. The tavern employers brought out some saw dust to cover up the blood on the floor, and the manager even visited Jerrod’s table to see if there was anything else he needed. But Jerrod told the man to fuck off.

That’s
real power.

* * * * *

According to one of Zandor’s agents, Lord Governor Cassius had plans in place. Though the provocateur had not yet discovered who was in charge of the city, there was the impression Sea Haven’s political structure was more complex than it appeared.

After Jerrod killed Lord Falston, the power vacuum was undercut by Castellan and his plan to use mercenaries to gain control of the city council. A military coup was nothing new, but stealing from the neighboring city of Janisberg to pay for it had been his greatest ploy and mistake.

The smallish man paced in a small room in one of the many taverns near the shipping yards. Only two of his men knew where he was, and even they did not know which room. It was preferable to use a go between at times. In this case, a young boy that worked at the tavern was his only contact.

The way Zandor saw it, the merchants’ guild and city hall still had the power. There might’ve been another player on the city stage, but he had yet to find it. The betting tents and arena made plenty of coin, from inside and outside the city, but they had to pay a tax to the city’s coffers.

Why Castellan had tried to shut those two enterprises down was still a mystery to Zandor. He had pressed Jerrod on Falston’s assassination and these other issues, but the other man had played it coy. Jerrod was a thickheaded bastard, but he wasn’t stupid or disloyal.

If Jerrod was sent to do a job, he would have done it without fail. He was the most reliable killer Zandor had ever worked with, yet one can never really trust a murdering assassin. Zandor knew the man would sooner stab someone than smile at them, so he was not sure what to think of what Jerrod told him.

Cassius had the most to gain from Falston’s death, but Jerrod had told him the man was there in the room with him when he cut the Lord Governor’s throat. Cassius had shat himself when he saw it happen.

It seemed like it was all Castellan’s idea, but Zandor was not so sure. Someone else was pulling strings, someone above Cassius and the former Guild Master. It didn’t matter to Zandor as long as he made his made money. But still, all the things were connected one way or another.

After the toughs got their beating at the arena, they had not shown their faces there or at the betting tents. Zandor knew that Jerrod, by all reports from his people, was busy getting drunk at his cabin, pissing his life away. Let him stew and push his way to the grave. Once the group of assassins moved in, they could help him along the way.

Hunting their own was a rare thing, but Zandor had seen it happen. He was within his power to call them off, but Jerrod had dug his own grave with his lethargy and nonsense. Let him die. It would’ve been a relief to the miserable bastard. It would’ve put him and everyone else out of their misery.

There were more pressing concerns. It was time to understand better what Lord Cassius was involved in. There was only one place in town to do it; the wealthy quarter, where all the rich merchants, politicians, and minor lords lived behind walls. They thought they were safe, but from what Zandor’s had learned, the thieves were pressing into their neighborhood. A call for more security was becoming louder and louder.

Zandor put on a simple disguise, a set of large boots and a large coat with heavy padding underneath. He stood in front of a mirror to work on his face. He added some putty to his sallow cheeks to make them look fuller and ditto on his neck.

His hawkish features disappeared to be replaced by a thicker, fatter appearance, more like the merchants he would be among. He lightened his dark, swarthy skin with make-up. It made him look like a man that spent more time indoors than out. Simple and effective.

The Prancing Pony was the wealthy quarter’s lone tavern, and the only one seen fit as a well-to-do for royalty establishment. Zandor had been there once or twice but never incognito. It was a nice place, filled with over-priced drinks, beautiful women, and rich people.

The latter was what he was most concerned with. They would know more about Cassius and his operation than the scum that hung out in the arena or the southern docks.

The Prancing Pony even had a hostess of all things, a pretty girl that would make more money at Madam Dreary’s brothel than showing people to their seats. She was missing out on big money. He tipped her well, and she smiled.

The ambiance was exquisite. A harpist played on a beautiful wooden stage, all lacquered up with a nice cherry finish. A young singer accompanied him. She had an incredible voice. Zandor ordered some wine and cheese while he waited.